Old Habits
by dalfron
Summary: Now he knows he's just a plucky sidekick, and nothing more. Not her One and Done. Not the man she wanted to be with. Not enough. -Post-ep 47 Seconds. Spoilers for 4x19/4x20. I ain't kidding when I say it's angsty.
1. Chapter 1

**Quick AN: I have another story that's been crying out for an update for months and months, but I haven't been able to write due to lack of a laptop(and a general busy life). But now I have a laptop, I can write again! Really, there were so many 47 Seconds feelings rattling around in my brain I had to write something down and it wouldn't have fit with my other story. **

**I love Beckett. I really, really do. I completely understand why she lied and I bet I would have done the same or worse – I probably would have been too much of a coward to approach Castle after freezing him out over the Summer. So bear with me on the Beckett-bashing from Castle... he's just working through his hurt.**

* * *

><p>He can't get out of the precinct fast enough. He had to leave.<p>

He can't keep the false smile on his face; feels it sliding off and revealing the bitterness below. He can see Beckett's confusion at his actions, feel her tentatively reaching out to him, covering the insecurity with a glaze of normalcy. He can't face being around her – a drink is out of the question.

"So I guess it's just us," Beckett prompts_. _He can feel the faltering bravado, an invitation with the pretense that it's a given.

After all, when had he ever turned down a post-precinct outing? Drinks at the Old Haunt, catching the comfort food truck, burgers at Remy's... he would always say yes. He would jump at the chance. She could invite him to go dig through trash with her, and he'd run to the elevator, raring to go.

Always waiting for her say-so, taking any treats she fed him. Eager, willing, waiting with wide eyes. Like a dog, perpetually grateful that its master was walking it and giving it attention. He feels embarrassed, disgusted with himself.

"Yeah." he shifts his feet, brushes his coat off, before he finally stops avoiding her gaze. Big mistake, judging by the wrench in his stomach.

"You know, now that the case is done... what did you want to talk about?"

It catches him off guard. Not that he had forgotten what he almost said earlier – how could he? – but he wasn't expecting her to bring it up. She's nervous, he can tell that much. It's in the split second before she schools her expression into one that says _mildly curious_ instead of _should I be worried._

It takes him too long to answer, too long to push back all the anger and the hurt he wants to throw at her, and she gives him a questioning look. He scrabbles for a foothold, hauls the fake smile back up, and shakes his head. "Nothing. Nothing important, anyway."

He takes a moment to examine the statement – paradoxically, it is both a lie and the truth. It was everything, but it wasn't important. Not now he knows he's just a plucky sidekick, a colourful distraction from the dark world of a cop, and nothing more.

Not her One and Done. Not the man she wanted to be with. Not enough.

His chest hurts and he can't stand it anymore, can't stand looking at her puzzled expression, the hints of worry and hurt that start clouding her eyes. Imperceptible, almost, but he could always read the tiniest clues in her. Or so he thought.

"I'm gonna head home," he announces, straining to make it sound casual. "'Night."

He's walking almost as soon as he starts the sentence, desperate to get away. He thinks about how he always waits, hangs around as he says goodbye, happy to stay in her presence as long as he can. The self-disgust comes back in waves, battering him as he heads for the elevator. _Such a fool_, he repeats in his head.

"G'night," Beckett calls after a pause, and he can feel her eyes on him. He doesn't indulge her confusion with a glance, stares straight ahead with shoulders squared. He keeps his posture straight, keeps his expression closed as he accidentally catches Beckett's eye, seeing her frown grow. She knows something is wrong – well, let her. He doesn't care. Isn't that what he said to his mother? _Watch me. _Just watch me stop caring. I can do it.

Only he can't, and he hates himself for it.

He needs to go home.

* * *

><p>Alexis phones him when he's on his way home, tells him she'll be out tonight. She's spending some time with her friends, having a sleepover, trying to forget the last few days. How sweet that would be, he thinks. He tells her to have fun – god knows she deserves it – and says goodbye, despite the selfish part of him that wants his daughter at home, keeping him company.<p>

He figures he'll have to get used to her not being there for movie nights and smiley pancakes, with her going off to college soon. Funny(or really, not funny at all), but he always thought that when Alexis left, he wouldn't be lonely. Because no matter how far away it had sometimes seemed, there had always been a small, stubborn part of him that believed Kate would be with him. Eventually. He had been willing to wait for however long 'eventually' took.

He searches for that tiny part of himself now: the quiet belief that she loves him, the small white hope in the Pandora's box of his doubt and insecurity.

He can't find it.

He drags a hand down his face, tips the cabbie handsomely for not trying to engage him in conversation, and heads up to his loft.

* * *

><p>"Mother? You here?" he calls out, tossing his keys onto the first surface he sees. Probably not, he guesses. The place is dark, and the air is still. He's alone.<p>

He heads for his office, but is stopped by the sight of a note on the table. It's from his mother – he recognises the handwriting even from a distance. She isn't one to leave notes when she's going out. If they're lucky, they'll get a _don't wait up! _on her way out the door, or a _see you when I see you._

He picks it up with a puzzled frown, scans it. His mother is going out with old friends, and probably won't be back until the morning. If he needs anything, he can call her. It's signed _chin up, kiddo _and that drags a smile from him, soothes the ache in his chest for a moment.

It is slightly depressing, though, that he's now such a pity-case his mother – _his _mother_ – _felt the need to let him know where she was going and that he could reach her.

He shakes the thought, heads for his office. He can't remember the last time he ate, but despite the pangs of hunger in his stomach, he knows food would be ash in his mouth. No, he needs to distract himself. Writing. He could always write, get out what he wanted to say on a blank document. Like therapy, but free.

Yet thirty minutes later, he's still staring at a blank document. He's typed several things, sure, but deleted them all because he didn't want to look at them. Sentence fragments, mostly, some paragraphs. Some Nikki Heat, but mostly disjointed nonsense, dark imagery and turbulent thoughts. He'd tried writing a chapter for Heat, but found he wasn't staying in Nikki's head well enough to write her. It's not that he couldn't. He just didn't want to be there, in her head. Too similar to another detective he was trying to get away from.

His screensaver comes on – You Should Be Writing. The words needle him, seeming to mock him for his inability to do the one thing he's supposed to be good at, and he shuts the laptop lid with a growl.

If not writing, he thinks, then what about reading? Escaping into a world created from ink and paper. It's been his go-to coping mechanism since he was small, so surely it can't fail him now.

He jumps up, scanning the shelves, trying to decide what he's in the mood for. He could opt for the old favourites – Christie, Doyle – but he's not in the mood for a mystery. He could go for classic – when was the last time he read an Austen? – but the thought of reading about love makes him queasy. He feels like something new, and heads to the section of his bookcase he keeps for his "to do" list.

Employing a tactic he used as a child in the library, he scans the books and waits for a cover or a title to catch his eye. When one does, he pulls it out and examines it critically. Alexis read it, recommended it to him, gave it to him to read. _The Very Thought of You_, it's called. Not off to a promising start, since he's trying not to think about the very person that title made him think about. He vaguely remembers Alexis saying it was about a child evacuee in the war, though, so he decides to give it a shot.

He opens the book with a sigh, settling back down in his office chair. He flips past the pages he think will contain the dedication, though he usually reads them. He doesn't want to see it, the tender thanks to a partner or a friend. He feels too bitter, remembering his mention of Kate in Heat Rises – how to make sense of songs. It was cryptic, and there was a chance she didn't get it, didn't remember the conversation he referenced... but he knows she did.

His eyes land on a paragraph and he automatically starts reading.

_Of all the many people we meet in a lifetime, it is strange that so many of us find ourselves in thrall to one particular person. Once that face is seen, an involuntary heartache sets in for which there is no cure. All the wonder of this world finds shape in that one person and thereafter there is no reprieve, because this kind of love does not end, or not until death– _

He snarls, shuts the book, throws it down as if it burned him.

He really needs a drink.

He tells himself he's just going to have a scotch or two as he heads to the kitchen, but if he's honest with himself, he knows he means to get drunk off his ass. It's not the most mature way to deal with things, but sometimes, you don't need mature. Sometimes you need the bite of the scotch and the drink-addled detachment. And if there was ever a _sometimes, _it's now.

He grabs the first bottle he sees in the drinks cabinet – Famous Grouse, a Christmas present from someone, if he remembers correctly – and grabs a glass to go with it before heading to the couch. He pours a tall glass and downs it in one, relishing the spice and the burn and the urge to shudder, enjoying the way it burns all the way down his throat and into his empty stomach.

The TV calls to him, so he switches it on if only for the background noise. Nothing appeals to him, and he flicks through several channels before he gives up and sets down the remote. He has an odd notion that sitting getting drunk with the TV on is _slightly_ less pathetic than sitting getting drunk in complete silence, so he's testing it out.

Well, either way he still feels pathetic. That can be fixed with more scotch, though, he's sure.

His phone chimes the arrival of a text, and he picks it up, sneers at his screen when he sees the sender. Beckett. "The hell do _you _want?" he spits aloud, tempted to throw the phone away from him. After a brief internal struggle, curiosity prevails and has him opening the message.

_Just found out Remy's is running a one day only special. Two for one double decker cheeseburgers and fries. Hungry?_

He blinks in surprise, momentarily forgetting his hurt. For a microsecond, his instinct is to grin, type a cheerful response, and grab his coat. Old habits and all. He pinches the bridge of his nose, opens up his phonebook, and scrolls to Beckett's number. He pulls up the menu and sees an option: "send calls from this contact directly to voicemail".

He selects it, puts the phone down, and pours himself another drink. Old habits die hard, but they still die. Eventually.

* * *

><p><strong>Next chapter is Beckett's POV. And, if anyone's wondering if I made that book up, I didn't – it's an actual book. <em>The Very Thought of You<em> by Rosie Alison. It's pretty good; you should read it if you get the chance. :) PS: I don't have a beta and I typed this in one long session while running on little sleep and no food for a long time, so excuse any errors.**


	2. Chapter 2

She's not sure what it is, but something about Castle is giving her a twisting feeling in her gut.

It's not the good kind, like when he says _always _or brushes against her or gives her _that_ smile, no... there's something wrong. There's a storm behind the opaque glass of his eyes, and she can't see it clearly, but she can feel the quakes of thunder.

At first, she puts it down to the case. He seems more affected by this one than by most of the others, and she can't blame him. It's a tough one. He's more solemn, more pensive, and she wants to smooth the wrinkle from his forehead with her fingertips, kiss away the furrow between his brows.

Then he approaches her, and he's talking about how he doesn't want to miss his chance like their victims did, and – oh god – for one hopeful, exhilarating, terrifying, dizzying moment, she thinks he's going to say it again. Right in the middle of the precinct, and she's knocked on her ass by the fact that she _wants_ him to.

They're interrupted before she can find out(she should really have seen that coming) and he looks so crestfallen, but she's too shaken by the rude awakening to respond the way she should. She smiles awkwardly, nodding her agreement to talk about it after the case, and walks away kicking herself mentally.

She vows then that she'll be the brave one – she'll be the one to bring it up after the case, help him broach the subject. It's not much, but it's all she can do. Hold his hand while he dives in, let herself be pulled with him, so he knows he isn't jumping into nothing. Her whole body thrums with the thought, the idea that when this case is wrapped she could be having the conversation with Castle that changes everything. She's petrified, but for the first time it doesn't stop her wanting it.

But then something changes in him, and she doesn't know when it started or why. He's closed off, no hint of a smile, and his words are clipped, biting. She puts it down to stress and brushes it off for a while, focuses on the case and ignores the needles of hurt, but then she notices several important things.

There's no warmth in his expression. In fact, there's hardly any recognition. It's like he's looking at someone he doesn't know. Someone he doesn't care to. She starts to wonder.

He still seems gloomy when he's talking to Ryan and Esposito, but he isn't cold with them. That honour seems to be reserved for her. He doesn't keep eye contact with her, and when she tries to smile at him, something toxic flits across his face. She can't pinpoint it, can't find the word to describe it, but it triggers an ache in her chest. She starts to worry.

He shifts away from her when she sits beside him at the board, like it's taking everything he has to sit next to someone so repulsive. It's a tiny movement, so small it's almost unnoticeable. But she notices. And she starts to fear.

* * *

><p>When the case is wrapped and everyone leaves, she gathers her courage in the first private moment they have, mouth dry and heart in throat. <em>Spit it out, Kate. Help him dive in.<em>

"You know, now that the case is done... what did you want to talk about?" She tries to make it sound offhand, like this couldn't change their lives for ever. But it could, couldn't it? No, it _will_. This is zero hour, and there's no going back from here. Her insides are an explosion of nerves and need, hope and fear making her eyes wide, her small smile borderline desperate. But that shadow's in his eyes again, and it throws her off balance.

And for a long moment, Castle just stares at her. She smiles encouragingly, waiting for the words that she –

"Nothing," he says. "Nothing important, anyway."

What?

But she could've sworn – when he started to say something before, he was so nervous – there was a look, an air about him that made her think – he looked so disappointed when they were interrupted, and she heard the heavy sigh – surely she hadn't been imagining it?

She hardly has time to look puzzled before he's leaving, giving her a smile that feels all wrong with a voice that's flat, false cheer barely covering something else.

"G'night," she manages, more a question than a farewell. But he's gone, stepped inside the elevator doors. She catches his eye as the doors start to close, and sees his face. He looks... something like defeated. But that's not what worries her.

The words come to her just as the doors shut completely, blocking him from view. That look in his eyes – the steely flash in his gaze, the split-second curl of his lip – it's contempt. Disgust. Maybe even hate.

And finally, she starts to panic.

* * *

><p>She's distracted by thoughts of him all the way home, where she paces the floor of her apartment, caught between urging herself to a panic and scolding herself to calm down.<p>

Just a bad mood, she soothes herself. Everyone's allowed an off day, right? So he was stressed over the case. He probably didn't sleep too well those few days, took out his sleep deprivation on her.

Only, that's something Castle doesn't do. No matter how grumpy, tired, or undercaffeinated he is, he always manages to smile at her – a real smile, not the sickly, clip-on smiles of the past day or so. No, he doesn't get hostile and aggressive towards his partner, no matter what.

That's _her_ job, she thinks with a pang of guilt.

So if he's acting like that, then something is most definitely wrong.

She paces faster, running a hand through her hair, when she's abruptly stopped by a loud banging noise directly beneath her feet.

She jumps, glances down at the floor. _Oh. _She still has her heels on, was too distracted to kick them off when she got home, and she's been clicking up and down the floor in them for the best part of ten minutes. Her neighbour downstairs must be going mad, hitting the ceiling to make her shut up.

Still, it's not exactly late, is it? It's not like they're trying to sleep, she figures a little defensively. There – it's only six thirty. Earlier than she thought, since they got away from the precinct so soon.

She flops down on the couch, takes off her heels(_happy, neighbour_?), and starts going over her options. Plenty of time to do something productive with her day, if she wanted. She could go for a run, or do some of her physical therapy exercises, or take a candlelit bath. Which definitely falls under the heading of 'productive', after the day she's had. But she doesn't really feel like any of those things.

She knows what she wants to do, but she doesn't know how to work up the nerve.

She wants – or is it needs? – to talk to Castle. Something's broken in their partnership, and she's getting cut on the jagged edges. Whether it's in him or in her she doesn't know, but she wants to fix it, fix him, take the desolation and the flares of anger from his face.

How does she do that, though? How does she make an excuse to see him? There's nothing at the precinct to be done, no case files to go over, no play to encore, no dog to share custody of...

And it strikes her. Maybe that's the whole point. Maybe she needs to be brave enough to admit that she just plain wants to see him. No hiding it behind official business or favours to a friend. Let him know that she wants to spend time with him, apropos of nothing.

Well.

Then that's what she'll do.

She picks up her phone, composes a text.

_Just found out Remy's is running a one day only special. Two for one double decker cheeseburgers and fries. Hungry? _

So that might be a small lie. Remy's has been running that offer for the past few days, and it's on until the end of the week. He might know that, figure out she just wants to see him – well, let him. That's what she's trying to do, right? Start showing she cares.

She sets her phone down once the text is sent and heads to her kitchen, pours herself a small glass of wine. Not that she's nervous, but... she's nervous. More than nervous, actually. Her making the move, extending the invitation, reaching out, is so far out of her comfort zone it makes her palms sweat. Not to mention, she knows that she's offering an olive branch. She just doesn't know what for. She remembers his face earlier – cold, almost sneering, and feels another bolt of dread.

He'll answer, she knows he will.

Only, he doesn't. An hour later she's still sitting there, leafing through a book that has less of her attention than it deserves while she compulsively checks her phone every few minutes.

It's not that big a deal. He's taken over an hour to text or call back before(_yeah, when he was held hostage)_. He could be asleep(_at seven thirty in the evening?_), or busy(_he always makes time for me_).

She frets over it a few minutes longer before she comes to a decision. Time to put on some big girl pants and stop being a coward. How hard was it to call him? Hey, how are things, did you get my text, why do you suddenly hate me?

Okay, maybe minus that last part. But she's going to do it.

She pushes down the apprehension in her belly as she hits the familiar speed dial – she's worried the frost will still be in his voice, the disdain. But what she hears, she thinks, is worse.

One ring, a beep, then a cheery, pre-recorded message. _Hey, it's Rick Castle. Leave a message and I'll get back to you._

No, that's not right. Because she knows that when that happens – one ring then voicemail – then the call's either been rejected, or her number's been blocked. That can't be right. She calls again. Same thing happens.

The fear starts to ebb, and she starts getting pissed. What the fuck is his problem?

Hell with this. She's going over there. He's turned up at her place enough times unasked, made her talk about whatever she didn't want to talk about, drew the poison out of her wounds even if it meant swallowing it himself. It's time she returned the favour.

* * *

><p>She makes a pit-stop on her way: she goes by Remy's, picks up two double cheeseburgers with fries, a strawberry shake for her(her favourite), and a chocolate for him(his favourite). Remy's don't usually do food to go, but the manager knows her, has seen her in here with Castle enough times that he's fond of them.<p>

"Dinner for you and Mr Castle, Detective?" he asks, a knowing quirk around his eyes. And for once, she doesn't balk at the assumption, doesn't scramble to deny it. She takes the paper bag, pays the bill and throws in a nice tip.

"That's what I'm hoping," she smiles.

* * *

><p>She's quickly discovering that it's one thing to <em>decide<em> to turn up at his door, and another thing entirely to do it. How long has she been standing here? A few minutes, but it feels like a lifetime. Her knuckles hover inches from the wood, refusing to go further, and she takes a breath.

Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear. Mark Twain.

A very noble and stirring thing for Mr Twain to say, she thinks wryly, but has he ever been stranded on the wrong side of the right door like she is right now? She readjusts the bag of food in her arms, takes another breath, and knocks.

For a while, nothing. But she strains her ears, hears the noise of a TV. She knows he's home and he's not getting away that easy. Emboldened, she knocks again, more firmly. It's a knock that says _I'm still here and I know you're there. _

The TV goes silent. No further noise. She tries to roll her eyes – does he seriously expect her to buy the "shh I'm not here" act? – but it stings that he wants to avoid her this much. She doesn't understand it, she just know that it hurts. Badly. And now, fuelled by her hurt, she's getting angrier.

Another knock, five loud, spaced raps against the door. This knock says _stop screwing around and open the door now._

She listens, and hears movement. A couple of thuds, an angry curse, and heavy footsteps growing nearer. She steps back from the door to a more acceptable distance, braces herself for an awkward reception, a Castle that isn't the Castle she knows. But she's not braced for the version of him that swings open the door.

He's bleary eyed, hair messed, and still holding on to the door handle. He's in the shirt and dress pants he left the precinct in but the shirt is wrinkled, half untucked. He's a state. When he focuses on her(it takes a second), he lets out a sharp huff, and she catches the unmistakable smell of booze.

He's staring her down, waiting for her to talk but he's disarmed, mouth open and working for words that won't form. "I – hey," she stutters out finally, unable to reconcile the man in front of her with Castle, _her _Castle. She looks past him, to the pile of books knocked onto the floor, the fifth of scotch that has far more air than scotch left in the bottle. "Are – are you drunk?"

He's more than drunk. He's wasted.

A smirk – no, a sneer – curls his mouth. "Guess they call you Detective for a reason."

Oh, that knocks the wind out of her, freezes her insides. "What's going on with you, Castle?"

His sneer only intensifies. "Sorry, did you bring food?" he gestures to the Remy's bag, "'cause I already have my dinner right here," he gestures to the scotch.

She inhales shakily, balls her free hand into a fist. Ignores the challenge to fight in his voice. "Castle. Talk to me."

He laughs then, an ugly, bleak laugh that makes her flinch. "You really are somethin', you know that?"

It's not a compliment.

"And what is _that_ supposed to mean?" She's taking the bait, can't help it, can't stop her defences putting her on offence.

"Kate Beckett wants to talk, but only when it suits Kate Beckett, is what it's supposed to mean."

She gapes at him as he sways slightly, icy eyes nevertheless keeping steady on hers. She's never seen him like this. Ever. He's not just angry – he's _cruel_. Belligerent, cold. He's hurting her and he doesn't give a shit. It scares the life out of her.

"Please, just... tell me what's wrong?" She's pleading now. She has to, because she needs Castle back, can't bear this hateful shadow with his face. "Tell me what I've done, so I can –"

"So you can what?"

She swallows. She's at a loss. "Apologise. Fix it."

"That's the thing, though. There's nothing to fix."

And he shuts the door in her face.

* * *

><p><strong>Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's SuperAngst! Decided the next chapter will be split between both of them, 'cause I keep getting ideas for one while I'm writing for the other. Thank you for the reviews, alerts and faves so far. They're keeping me happy and sane in the wake of the soul-shredder that was 47 Seconds.<strong>

**Btw, I know I said there were spoilers for The Limey promo in the description, and there will be in the upcoming chapter! The writer and the cop and the blonde and the Englishman... sounds like a bad joke, doesnt' it? Feels like one, too. :(**


	3. Chapter 3

"Oh, Richard."

He stirs, rubbing a hand over his face and trying to force his eyes open. What's – is he on the couch? Why is every part of his body killing him? What–?

His eyes finally open and his mother's face swims into view. She's perched beside his sprawled body on the couch, hand placed gently over his. Pity in her eyes.

Oh. Right.

Memories of the past few days present themselves again in painful spikes, robbing him of the ignorant bliss that immediately precedes waking up. Kate. The lie. The drinking. The fight. More drinking.

A groan escapes him that is not down to the hangover. "What time is it?" He rasps. Throat like sandpaper. He'd sell his soul for a drop of water.

"A little after eleven."

When did he fall asleep last night? _Pass out_ might be the better term. At one point he remembers squinting red eyes at the clock, willing the world to stop spinning, just barely managing to read the time as four AM. It had to have been pretty soon after that.

"What happened?" Martha asks, and there's a resignation in her voice that tells him this wasn't entirely unexpected.

He doesn't have a proper answer. He hardly knows himself. He pulls himself upright, sighs. "Wish I knew."

Martha stiffens. "You don't remember? Richard," she admonishes, "How much did you drink?"

"It's not that." Wouldn't it be a funny twist if he didn't remember? Or he could always pretend he didn't. That seems to be the go-to method for erasing words you wish didn't come out.

The writer in him likes the symmetry in that. Two lies, two protestations of amnesia. Bookends for his bruised heart. "I remember, I just..."

"Richard. Talk to me."

He hears the echo of Kate's voice the night before, giving that same plea-disguised-as-a-command, and he winces. He pulls his hand away from his mother's, presses the heel of his hands against his eyes. "Beckett came over last night."

"And? Did you two fight?"

It wasn't a fight. It was an attack. He baited her, spat venom at her, watched her flinch. He remembers her shaky breathing, the shock and pain in her eyes. Remembers shutting the door in her face, because he couldn't look at her any longer without wanting to crush her in an embrace, undo the hurt, plead for her forgiveness and beg _why are you doing this to me?_

"I didn't even let her in the door," he mumbles, head now in his hands.

His mother hums, places a hand on his shoulder.

"Darling," she says sorrowfully, her usual theatrics gone, "You need to think carefully. Rationally. And without a fifth of scotch in your system. You need to think about what you want, and about what you need, because whatever happens next? It's your move. Make sure it's the right one."

What he _wants_? He wants her_. _He wants that future he imagined, the one with always and next time without the tiger and third time's the charm. Her smile in the mornings, her hand to hold, her body and heart against his.

As for what he _needs_ – he needs the grip around his heart to stop, the self-loathing and shame, the stranglehold on his throat when he thinks about seeing her break down the wall and live happily with someone that isn't him.

He wants her to be happy. He wants that so much. If it wasn't with him, he would want her to be happy with whatever man was amazingly lucky enough to be hers. That's something he knows to be a fact. But it would kill him.

He could leave. Is the phrase 'cold turkey' applicable when you're talking about a person, he wonders? Go cold turkey and cut ties. Walk out of her life forever. Save them both the discomfort of unrequited feelings.

Never see her smile, never hear her laugh. Depend on Ryan and Esposito for second-hand accounts of cases solved, lives saved. Boyfriends, new partners, maybe a marriage one day(the thought kicks him in the gut). That is, if Ryan and Esposito even want to know him after he leaves them.

It would save him the pain of watching her happily ever after, though. No more worrying for his mother and Alexis. No more _dilettante writer playing cop_ for Gates to snarl at. No more precinct mascot getting underfoot. He would simply gather the remains of his dignity and slink out the door when no one's around to notice.

She would notice, though.

Even if she doesn't love – even if she doesn't feel the same way about him, she's still his friend. Right?

All the looks, the smiles, the talk of beating the odds and the _kind of relationship she wanted... _he'd thought she was talking about him. He'd let the fantasy bloom in his head, let himself believe that she felt the same. Foolish. He can see that now.

But they're still partners, aren't they? That smile she gave him in the bank – it still steals his breath – it might not have been what he thought, but it was still caring. She cares about him as a person, just not in the way he'd like. Hadn't they saved each others' lives more times than he could count? Hadn't she said before that she wanted him around?

It'll hurt her, if he leaves. And when Kate's hurt...

She runs, shuts down, hides in the rabbit hole she's never truly managed to crawl out of. She goes back to her mother's case.

If he leaves, there'll be no one to stop her. She'll blindfold herself and charge into the open. Right into a sniper's crosshairs.

That thought alone makes his decision for him.

He can't leave completely, but he can't stay.

Maybe he can take a step back. Maybe put on some of his own personal brand of armour. Lie to the world, and maybe, if he's lucky, he might start believing his own lie somewhere down the line.

If he's very, very lucky.

It doesn't seem likely.

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

* * *

><p>Kate stands completely still for a solid minute after she hears the final click of the door lock. She's staring at the wood, unable to process it, unable to comprehend. <em>What just happened? <em>That wasn't Castle. Castle would talk to her. Castle wouldn't snarl at her, wouldn't give off waves of fury, wouldn't slam the door on her and _how dare he? _What had she done that was so terrible, so contemptible, that he would treat her like that? She raises her fist to pound on the door, to confront him and tear him to pieces, make him fix this whole thing, but then –

Then she remembers his words.

There's nothing to fix.

She would call the feeling that washes over her 'dread', but it doesn't quite fit. 'Dread', to her, implies she's afraid she _might_ be losing him. As it stands, she's afraid she already has. She just wishes she knew what for.

She throws the Remy's bag in the trash on her way out the building.

* * *

><p>Her alarm clock wakes her far too early the next morning. Six thirty AM – a time she's well acquainted with, thanks to her job, but never a time she's been particularly fond of. She's a late sleeper at heart, used to sleep whole days away in college, but not since she joined the force. It's become second nature to rise at the crack of dawn, to drag herself out of bed and get on with her work.<p>

Yet today? Today is much harder than most days.

It didn't help that she was up until god knows when, agonising over every look on Castle's face, every sneer that pierced her like a knife through cloth.

For one naïve, hopeful second, she lifts her phone, expecting to see a message from him with an explanation, or maybe some hint that would make her realise it was some horrible dream. The phone shines defiantly back at her, devoid of messages. No such luck.

Her stomach clenches, and her eyes start to smart, but no. She needs to move. She needs to stop being Kate and become Detective Beckett, NYPD Homicide. She has a job to be at and colleagues to face, and she'll put flowers on Hal Lockwood's grave before she lets the world see her upset.

That little speech usually gets her back on track promptly, but it's taking a little longer today.

Before long, though, she's up and dressed, quickly fixing her hair and putting on some makeup. She's almost out the door when her cell rings, and reflex has her grab for it and answer before she gets a look at the caller ID.

"Beckett?" She's a little disgusted with how hopeful she sounds.

"Yo, Beckett."

It's impossible to hide the disappointment in her voice. "Oh. Hey, Espo. What's up?"

"Yeah, good morning to you too," Esposito grouses. Apparently the disappointment is also impossible to miss. "Listen, you up? We got a body. This one isn't gonna be fun."

That gets her attention. "Yeah, I was just en route to the twelfth. What d'you mean, it isn't gonna be fun?"

"Body's right in the middle of Bow Bridge in Central Park. Freakin' tourists trampling all over the crime scene shouting out questions, and the press is already there."

She growls. "Fantastic. Gates is gonna love this."

"She already called me and told me if we don't square away that crime scene ASAP, we'll be working mall security within a month."

"Alright. I'll be there soon as I can. Shouldn't be more than thirty minutes." She goes to hang up, but Esposito stops her.

"You gonna call Castle?" His voice is careful, almost apologetic. He knows something isn't right.

It takes her longer than it should to answer. _Detective Beckett. Not Kate. _

"Think he's gonna sit this one out." She makes her answer firm, makes it clear that's the end of the subject. "I'll see you at the scene."

* * *

><p>She's been at the precinct for hours, and she's getting fed up of the looks.<p>

Ryan and Esposito keep giving her little glances(they've never been very good at subtle) laced with concern and – this is the part she hates most – hints of pity.

So she might have been caught staring at his empty chair a few times. Her hand might have shot out too eagerly for her phone every time it rang, and she might have zoned out once or twice in conversation. But she doesn't need pity, and she doesn't want it.

Footsteps sounding on the bullpen floor break her out of her reverie(had she been staring at the chair again?), and she looks up to see Ryan hovering beside her desk.

Clearing her throat, she sits back in her chair and raises her eyebrows expectantly. "Hey. Any luck on the security cameras?"

Ryan shifts awkwardly, and she tenses. _He's not here to talk about the case, is he?_

"Uh – no. We've went over all the footage from any camera even remotely near Bow Bridge during the killzone, but nothing popped. We're still canvassing the area, but... Central Park, y'know? Thousands of people in and out there every day. It's gonna be hard to find out who was where at what time..." He's stalling.

"Uh huh."

He seems to sense her impatience, and cuts to the chase. "Is everything alright? With you, I mean?"

_Shit_. Don't falter, don't blink. "Fine. There a reason why it shouldn't be?"

"It's just – I called Castle earlier to ask him about this gift I was thinking about getting Jenny, and I asked him if he was coming in today. I figured, body just appears in the middle of Central Park, press everywhere, no witnesses... it's his kinda case."

It's a fight to stay cool, to hold herself back and act unconcerned. A fight she loses.

"What'd – what'd he say?"

"He said he was gonna give it a miss. I asked him if he'd be in tomorrow, and he said he didn't know."

"Oh." She doesn't know why it hurts – she didn't expect to see him today. In fact, she has a horrifying feeling she might not see him again, period.

"He sounded... rough."

Concern for him automatically floods her system, and she asks herself for the thousandth time why she didn't break down his door and _fix him._

Because he kicked her out. No, because he didn't even let her in. Her defense mechanisms come back in force, and she scowls. "Well, Castle's a semi-grown up man who can take care of himself. I'm sure he's fine. We've got a murder to worry about."

Ryan edges back from her clipped tone, and she feels a surge of guilt. "Right," he says uneasily. "So... everything's fine?"

"Everything's fine." She forces a smile, hopes he can see the apology in it, and he smiles back before he nods and walks away.

Everything's fine.

_Everything's fine._

Until Castle walks in.

* * *

><p>She's just out the box with their lead suspect – she thinks he might be their guy; he seems close to breaking – and she's feeling better. She just needs the rush of the clues, the lightbulb moments and the <em>got you, you son of a bitch. <em>It keeps her going, keeps her mind trained on the hunt rather than the hurt.

It's fine. She got through twenty nine years before she met Castle, she tells herself, and three Summers since then. She can cope with a single day at the precinct alone(despite every nerve in her body screaming at her to find him and fix it before it's all gone).

She's on her way back to her desk with Esposito, head buried in the case file, when she feels Esposito stop beside her. What–

Then she follows his gaze, and she stumbles to a halt herself.

Castle's by her desk. Standing at a safe distance, not sitting, like he doesn't belong. He spots her and his expression flickers, but he doesn't make a move towards her. He's anxious. That's all she can tell.

"You know, I just thought of something. I should go run it by Ryan," Esposito blurts out, turning on his heel and all but running off. Usually she would find it just a little bit funny, the awkward excuses Ryan and Esposito make to give them some privacy – but now she wants to call him back and ask him not to leave, ask him to stay so she doesn't have to face this alone–

_No_. _Stop_. She can handle this.

She gathers herself and walks forwards calmly, trying to remain unaffected(it's not working). An invisible barrier seems to stop her several feet from him, a chasm she can't get across. She steels herself.

"Hey."

(Really? That's all she can manage? _Hey_?)

She doesn't want to look in his eyes, doesn't want to see whatever harsh emotion might be lurking there now. Disgust, anger, or worse, _nothing, _like there was when he shut the door. Her heart's hammering irregularly and fuck, when did it get so hard to talk to Castle?

When he stopped being Castle, she answers herself.

"Hey," he rasps back, and Ryan was right, he does sound rough.

She looks at him again, and that was a mistake. He looks tired, but not the lack of sleep kind. Bone-weary, like she's never seen him. She's seeing a lot of new sides to him lately.

The silence stretches awkwardly and she's gripped by the urge to move, energy stinging unbearably in her muscles, so she steps around him and sits down at her desk. He's still silent. So, he wants to pretend it didn't happen? Fine.

"Victim was found stabbed to death on Bow Bridge in Central Park," she says robotically. Keeps her head down, eyes on her desk like it's demanding her attention. "His name was Johnny Harkins. We tracked his last movements to an apartment on West Seventy-Third Street that belongs to a friend of his named Frank O'Neill. Apparently, Johnny was in a relationship with Frank's sister that ended badly, and–"

"Kate," he interrupts softly, and she nearly flinches.

"What, Castle?" _Don't 'Kate' me_. The anger is back, setting her teeth in a snarl. Is this some kind of game to him? Does he think he can just treat her like shit, then turn up like everything's fine? Does he have any idea how worried she's been, how she's been terrified that she's done something to ruin the one good thing in her life? And now he waltzes into the precinct and leaves her to fill the silence again?

"I'm not here to talk about the case." He sits on his chair. Perched, uncomfortable.

"Then why _are_ you here?" It bursts out before she can stop it. "Cause it sure as hell isn't for me. You made that pretty clear last night."

"I want to apologise."

_And you'd be right in wanting that,_ she wants to spit, but another look at his face stops her.

Has he even slept at all? He hasn't shaved, she can tell that much. The lines in his face are deeper, his mouth has no hint of a smile. Despondent. It's a face for a funeral.

"What happened?" All her questions, all her anger and fear, boil down to that one question.

But his face is closing up again, and there's something she doesn't understand, like it's killing him to do what he's doing. Killing _him? _What about her?

"I just... I had a bad day."

Like hell he's getting away with that excuse. "_Castle_."

"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken it out on you the way I did. I'd just been drinking, and... I wasn't in my right mind. It was inexcusable; I understand that." He makes an odd little motion, like he wants to reach for her but reconsiders halfway, and his hand falls on her desk instead. "I just wanted you to know – I really am sorry. And I understand if you don't feel like forgiving me."

He's sincere. He's sorry, and truth be told, she's already forgiven him. But she's starting to panic again, because the sadness in his eyes is sending her spiralling down, and she knows why. She's had too much experience with goodbyes not to recognise one when she hears it.

"Castle, what's–?"

"There was something else," he interrupts again, with a horrible attempt at joviality, "I'm almost done with the manuscript for Frozen Heat. This is the last book in the contract, and I haven't heard anything about a new offer so far..."

No.

"... There's a lot of gang involvement in this book, but I don't know if I really got the feel of it right. So I spoke to Detective Slaughter – you remember him, he helped us out on the Broomland case once? – and he agreed to let me be his new partner and shadow him for a while...

No, no, no.

"... I thought it might be good to take a little break, get some fresh eyes."

A break_._

A _break_?

This has got to be some sick joke, because she's suddenly transported back to the Summer he left her for the Hamptons and a blonde ex-wife, listening to him give a veiled goodbye just like this one.

And a new partner?

"I'll still stop by to help out with cases sometimes, if I'm wanted. Gates'll probably throw a party to celebrate my not being here, though. Bet she changes the locks as soon as I'm gone." The smile doesn't show any higher up than his mouth, and the joke is bitter.

A break? A new partner? When he's gone?

This is the moment, she can feel it. The pivotal moment where she needs to say something, needs to grab him and punch him or grab him and kiss him, or do something, _anything_. He's looking at her, searching her for something in her face like his life depends on it.

But all she can do is stare dumbly. Nod once. Bite the inside of her cheek so hard it almost draws blood, focus on the pain to stop the tears that would start if she let them.

Because he's leaving. He got bored of waiting, tired of carrying her heavy baggage, and he's cutting his losses. She doesn't blame him. A part of her feels vindicated, because she always secretly expected this to happen, but she isn't prepared for how completely it crushes her.

He's leaving.

He's bored.

She wasn't enough.

She tried _so hard_ to be enough.

Her hand travels unconsciously to the scar on her chest, presses against it.

He stands, breaks eye contact, looks around the bullpen as though he's taking it in for the last time(it's what he's doing, isn't it?).

"I'll see you around, Detective," he says heavily. Deflated. He heads to the elevator without a glance back.

And leaves her.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter took a while to write because(believe it or not) it kept going in an even more angsty direction, and that wasn't what I wanted for this particular fic(again, believe it or not). I saved the ideas and paragraphs for the Even Angstier Cousin of this, so I might make that into a oneshot. It pretty much makes this fic look like rainbow kitten fluff. But between 47 Seconds, The Limey, and the fantastically written anstyfics on here, I don't know if my heart can even take writing that particular scenario right now. And, uh, I'm not sure if I left out Jacinda and Scotland Yard because the story went in its own direction, or I was subconsciously rebelling against Castle with bimbos and Beckett with English. That "she's fun and uncomplicated" line? Youch.<strong>

**PS: Still no beta so sorry for mistakes. I'm incorrigibly lazy so even though I continually say I have no beta, I continually do nothing to remedy the fact. **


	4. Chapter 4

It's been three weeks since he left. Three weeks since he last saw her.

Well, no, that's not technically true.

He's seen her in glimpses, brief moments that he keeps expecting to have less of an effect on him, knock the wind out him a little less than before. He's got to grow immune to her sometime, he figures. Enough friction makes a callus, if you give it time.

Maybe he just needs a little more time, because his theory hasn't been proved right yet.

He sees the back of her as she waits for the elevator, clutching a tall cup of coffee that isn't from their usual place. It's from another store, further away, higher in price and lower in quality. Strange – he can't think of a reason for her to buy her coffee from there, other than her avoiding the store they frequent(or used to frequent). It's also strange how the idea wounds him.

He sees her in the precinct lobby late one night, hunched in a chair in a corner, trying to look inconspicuous while she pores over a case file. It's something she does when she's been kicked out by the Captain but she doesn't want to leave, sure she can still be productive and find a lead. If and when she finds it, he knows she'll sneak back upstairs once the Captain's left, mark it on the board and keep puzzling it out.

His heart constricts just looking at her. Achingly beautiful. So focused, so determined, biting her bottom lip with a furrow between her brows. He loves how she does tha–

No, not loves. Loved. Past tense. His switch must be faulty. He'll need to fix that.

He moves quietly past her, slipping by unnoticed. He's not sure if he's glad or not.

He sees her when he's waiting outside the precinct in Detective Slaughter's flashy car – the polar opposite of Beckett's no-nonsense Crown Vic – running with Ryan and Esposito to their respective vehicles. They grab their bulletproofs from the trunk before they get into the unmarkeds and speed off, gumballs flashing. He pictures her going up against a faceless suspect, being overpowered, being hurt. Partnerless, without backup, because he left.

When Slaughter gets into the car and asks him why he's shaking, he tells him it's because he's coming down with a cold.

* * *

><p>Detective Ethan Slaughter is no Detective Katherine Beckett. That much is clear from the beginning.<p>

Morals, to him, seem to be nothing more than quaint suggestions. He's loud, and brash, and overly macho. He doesn't pause for thought before he throws a suspect bodily into the wall, and only pauses before injuring a suspect long enough to ensure he isn't being watched by a superior.

This is refreshing, at first, and a rush. Castle spends the first week with his chest puffed up – he's strutting around with the coolest, baddest jocks in the school. He gets to speed through the city in fast cars and meet gang informants in shady alleys and on one occasion, he even gets to carry a _gun_.

Slaughter calls him _Ricky_, then nicknames him _Tyson _after he punches an attacking suspect in self-defense, and it's good, it's nice not being Castle. It lets him breathe, lets him forget green eyes and soft curls and perfect lips saying that name.

However, the rush quickly wears off.

Before long, Castle finds himself constantly on edge. One of the cons of hanging around with the cool kids, he realises, is the constant pressure to fit in. Do as they do, think as they think.

His cheesy jokes and dramatic theories don't earn him a fond eye-roll – they earn him a vicious snarl("You gonna quit bein' a wiseass and help get this sonofabitch?"). He has to keep his mouth shut when Slaughter breaks the rules, abuses his power, mistreats the citizens he swore to protect. _Beckett wouldn't do that _is forever on the tip of his tongue, and it's increasingly difficult to bite it back.

He quickly learns to change his mannerisms. He perfected the art of personality crafting as a lonely kid in boarding school: sculpting, cultivating and downright faking the traits he needed to fit in, to be accepted, and presenting them to his peers. He applies the same technique now.

Just a hint of a swagger. Jaw held a little higher. A slightly stronger, rougher take on his New York accent. A faint, ever-present smirk. A booming laugh. He ditches the suit jacket and dress pants, starts wearing a leather jacket and jeans. He stops saying things like _that's surprising _and starts saying thing like _well, fuck me._

It feels wrong, though. All wrong. He's walking around with a shell, having to carry and act this Ricky, Tyson, whoever the hell he is, and it's fast becoming exhausting.

He misses his real self.

He misses his real team.

He misses _her_.

He misses her so much he's shocked he can still function, still appear to be a normal human being to the outside world.

But she doesn't feel the same. He'd be torturing himself more seeing her every day, so this is good, he reiterates. This is just detox. Love is as powerful as any drug, right? And any addiction is hard to shake. There'll be pain, craving, needing... but sooner or later it'll fade, and he'll come out stronger on the other side of it.

He'll continue to tell himself that until it starts sounding true.

* * *

><p>He's with Slaughter and Ortega in the Gang Unit bullpen, laughing over a crude joke he doesn't really find that funny, when someone calls his name – <em>Castle<em>, not Ricky or Tyson or Sherlock or any of the other nicknames he's earned in Gangs.

Oh. That's not who he was expecting.

Ryan walks up to him with a folder in his hand and a hardness in his expression. He looks almost comically out of place in his three-piece suit and shined shoes, but seems completely unphased by the rough atmosphere. He might be the quiet pacifist out of his team, Castle reminds himself, but he's still tougher than most.

"Ryan. Hey, man." Castle's attempt at a welcoming smile falters when Ryan remains stony-faced. "What are you doin' here?"

After keeping his stare – or is it a glare? – on Castle for a moment longer, Ryan turns to Slaughter.

"Hey. Detective Ryan, Homicide." After nods of greeting are exchanged, he ploughs ahead, ignoring Castle completely.

"Our unit just caught a fatal shooting. We think it's gang related – the vic was tagging a wall when it happened. We still don't have an ID on the vic, but we have this picture of the tag," he pulls a print-off of the graffiti from the folder, "And we were hoping you guys might be able to tell us what gang it belongs to, where we can find 'em, who their enemies are."

Slaughter shrugs. "Sure, we can take a look. Ortega, handle that, will ya? I'm gonna get a drink." He saunters to the break room and shuts the door(Castle doubts he means coffee when he says 'drink'), and Ortega heads off with an assurance that he'll call up to Homicide if he finds the information they need.

Which leaves Castle and Ryan standing in uncomfortable silence.

Okay. Wow.

He's always considered Beckett and Esposito to be the scary ones, but being on the receiving end of that look leaves him praying he's _never _on the opposite side of an interrogation table to Kevin Ryan.

"Celtic playing today?" Castle asks nervously, gesturing to the small shamrock pin on the detective's lapel. It's a Scottish soccer team, but the club has Irish ties and Ryan's Irish roots mean he's been brought up to support them. He always wears the shamrock pin on game days, and sometimes Castle watches the games with him, despite not being much of a soccer fan himself.

The icebreaker doesn't even chip Ryan's façade, however, and he turns to leave with a sharp, "See you around."

"Whoa, hey, wait! What gives, Ryan?"

"What _gives_?" Ryan wheels back around with a growl, and Castle reflexively takes a step back. "What gives is that you left."

"Left? I'm – I'm just shadowing Slaughter for a whi–"

"Riiight. And that's why you've been avoiding Beckett."

Busted. "I have not been–"

"You know what, Castle? Maybe you don't care about this, but we're your _partners. _Me, Esposito, Beckett – all of us. Your family. Or at least we were. Obviously that doesn't mean much to you. Me and Esposito have each others' backs, but who's gonna have Beckett's now you got bored and dropped us? Again?"

He needs to explain so badly. Tell him he'd still be their partner if he could, tell him he can't be around her all day and not fall into despair because he's been a fool the whole time, because he can't picture ever finding someone he'd love a fifth as much as her.

Instead, he says nothing, and lets Ryan walk away.

* * *

><p>Slaughter overhears the verbal beatdown, and cracks a few jokes as they head to his car – "Was that your ex-girlfriend or somethin'?" – but Castle doesn't feel much like laughing about it.<p>

He feels more like drinking about it. A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Beckett warns him that drinking isn't the way to fix his problems, tells him he should find a better way to deal with things.

Well, he's sure most health professionals would advise against listening to any voices you might have in your head. He'll pour himself a nice glass of scotch when he gets home.

"So where are we going again?" He should have been listening, getting excited when Slaughter gave him a debriefing(emphasis on the 'brief'), but he'd been too caught up in thoughts of partners and _now you got bored and dropped us, again_.

"To meet the rat," Slaughter huffs impatiently. He sees Castle's blank stare, rolls his eyes. "The gang I was tellin' you about? Call themselves Tongs? Did you listen to a thing?"

Castle shrugs. No, not really. _We're your family, or at least we were._

The detective snorts. "Alright, here's the skinny. But listen this time, cause I ain't telling you again, and I ain't gonna save your ass if you run into trouble 'cause you don't know who you're dealing with. Okay? Okay. They're a pretty new gang – only go back about ten years – but they're what you could call up-and-coming. Scots-Irish, mainly. Big on extortion and racketeering... y'know, the usual. But they love knives. Plain old stabbing, slashing, throat-slitting, Glasgow Smiles if they're feeling creative. Pretty nasty, if you ask me."

Something about Slaughter's grin tells Castle he doesn't find it as nasty as he claims.

"So, they've been getting bigger, pushing into other territories. It's causing some problems, causing some fights. You wanna stand a chance in a gang war, you need money. You wanna get more money, you need to branch out a bit from racketeering."

"Drugs?" Castle questions dumbly. Wait, why is he getting involved with these people again?

"Drugs, smuggling, prostitution," Slaughter casually throws the terms out, "You name it. Some bad heroin's been making the rounds on the streets lately, and Narc thinks it's down to the Tongs. Asked us to check it out... which is where the rat comes in. Poor sucker's only eighteen. Kid wants out, but he needs protection."

"Are we gonna help him?" That's a given, surely.

It's Slaughter's turn to shrug. "If he gives us good enough information. Why'd we waste resources protecting him if he's not even any use to us?"

Yeah, he definitely misses Beckett.

* * *

><p>He really should have seen this coming, he thinks.<p>

For three weeks this moment had been coming, a slow-motion trip and fall down the stairs, the floor rising up to meet him for the inevitable crash. It was bound to happen. He should have stopped it, should have changed course. Been living too dangerously. But it's too late now.

He feels the knife slip into his abdomen, the overriding lance of white-hot pain, and he can't speak, can't think clearly. He tries to look at his attacker, tries to ask a silent _why_? But he's already gone, running, chasing after the rat.

What was his name again? Chris? He'd been so scared. Kept worrying he'd been followed.

Didn't listen. Should've listened.

Everything's blurry now, muffled, and it's okay, better than the all-consuming pain, and when did he get on the ground?

Some sober part of his mind knows he should be keeping pressure on the wound, but it's so hard when he's so tired. Just wants to sleep. His blood is warm, hot even, and that would be surprising to him if he hadn't been in a situation like this before. Holding a hand to Kate's chest while she bled out on the green grass.

Kate.

Where's Kate?

Is she okay?

Where's Slaughter?

Can't see him.

He's alone.

He's going to die, and he's alone.

He wishes he could say sorry. Wishes he had more time. Wishes so many things.

That's the last thing he thinks before the world goes black.


	5. Chapter 5

It's been three weeks.

Three long weeks and it's still painful to think about Castle, it still makes her heart stall to remember that he's as good as gone.

He said he'd still be around, but he's not here now, is he? He's been avoiding her, she knows that much. She's seen him out the corner of her eye about the precinct, swaggering through the lobby with Slaughter and a host of other Gang Unit cops, keeping his stare fixed ahead and his pace fast.

Making it clear he's a man with people to talk to and places to go. No time for interruptions and conversations, not even with her.

Not that she's tried, of late. After several emergency appointments with Doctor Burke, several hours of hating herself for not being able to keep the choke from her voice or the tears from her eyes when she talked about him, she tried to call. But it rang once, and went straight to voicemail. Her number's still blocked.

After that, she bought her own morning coffee. From a different store. The baristas in their usual store recognised her, kept asking, "And will you be needing one for Mr Castle, too?".

Her mute head-shakes and dropped gaze didn't seem to get through to them, so she decided to rip the band-aid off. Why wait for them to slowly get it? Why go through being asked that for weeks, maybe even months, before even the baristas figured out he was gone? Make a clean break, just like he did with her.

The key, she thinks, is resilience. Let the waves batter her, erode her, but stay in place. The storm will pass. There's no doubting she'll be different when it's over: uglier, more wounded, less than she was before. Without him. But still in place.

That's really the best she can hope for.

Gradually, she stops talking about him. Forces herself to stop waiting for his call. Forces herself to stop looking up every time the elevator doors open. The only way she'll survive is if she's strong enough to take the waves. She'll need more fortifications.

Quietly, she starts rebuilding her wall, brick by brick.

* * *

><p>They're all in the bullpen when they get the call.<p>

Ryan and Esposito are messing around, teasing each other as they stand in front of the murderboard. It's goofy and slightly over-exaggerated – for her benefit, she suspects – but she's grateful. She could use a distraction.

Velásquez breaks the fragile thread of light-heartedness in the air when she calls over to Ryan, indicating his desk. "You've got a Detective Ortega from Gangs on the line. He says he has the information you asked for, but there's something urgent he has to talk to you about."

Beckett shoots Ryan a confused look. Didn't he say he'd get a uniform to go talk to the Gangs Unit? Again, for her benefit. To save her going down there and being brushed off by Castle. Not to mention, the boys aren't happy with him either.

Ryan avoids her probing gaze, shrugging defensively before he moves off to his desk. Strange. He looks... almost guilty. Really, if he just wanted to see Castle, he doesn't have to hide it. She understands. Not that she isn't touched by their loyalty, but just because Castle seems to be done with her, it doesn't mean he should never see the boys.

She keeps a skeptical eye on him while he takes the call nonetheless. Fun has been sort of hard to come by lately, so she might as well try to have some by making him squirm.

But something isn't right. Ryan's silent for a long while, face draining of colour, gripping the back of his chair.

"Is he..." he finally chokes, and Beckett feels her body freeze up. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. She tries to catch his eye, ask a silent _what's going on? _It doesn't work. He doesn't look her way.

"Where is he?"

Where is _who_? Is this a suspect? Why would Ryan look so shell-shocked if it was a suspect? Why would Ortega from Gangs be phoning with urgent bad news, unless it was about...

No. She's not going there. That's not what this is about.

That_ can't _be what this is about.

"Ryan?" She prompts as he carefully replaces the phone in its cradle, walks back to her and Esposito, and is he shaking? "What's going on?"

"It's Castle."

The room tilts, dizzying, and it's all she can do to stay standing. That's The Voice. The Homicide Detective Voice, the one they use when they have to break the worst possible news to relatives of a victim. She's been on the receiving end once before, one time too many, and she has to be imagining it, because this can't be–

"Ryan." The word is ragged, tearing out between rapid, too-shallow breaths. "Tell me."

"He was out in the field with Slaughter. It went sideways, and – he's been stabbed."

_No, no, no, no, no, nononono. _It's loud and shrill in her head, a constant oscillating ring, drowning out everything else, blocking her thoughts. This isn't how it ends. This cannot be how it all ends.

"He's – is he –" the words _alive _and _dead _are impossible to force out. Because if he's dead... he can't be dead. He's not dead. She would have known, would have felt her world splinter and crack and shatter into blackness the second Richard Castle's heart stopped beating.

"He's in surgery at the Presbyterian. That's all they know. But he's alive, Beckett."

Alive.

He's alive.

She has to see him.

* * *

><p>The ride to the hospital is fraught, silent except for terse exchanges about the whereabouts of Martha and Alexis. Do they know? That he's been stabbed, is in surgery, could be flat-lining right now?<p>

Esposito calls the loft, then Martha, then Alexis, all with no answer. He calls Lanie, breaking the news and asking if she's seen Alexis all in one breath. Beckett can hear Lanie's voice, raised and urgent, even without speakerphone. _Is he still in surgery? Where was he stabbed? How many times? – _too many questions she doesn't know the answer to, questions that call up images of Castle pale and prone and lifeless.

She hears a groan escape her throat, wants to cover her ears and close her eyes. Too much.

Lanie eventually tells Esposito that Alexis is in California for the week. Spending some time with her mom in LA, going on another tour of Stanford.

Beckett wants to close her eyes and cover her ears again.

Alexis is gone, on the other side of the country, for a week. That sort of thing would be huge to Castle. The sort of thing he'd tell her, bemoan over coffee, share his worries about – back when they were still _them, _that is.

If he hadn't left – if she had stopped him leaving – she would know about Alexis. She would have calmed Castle down, assured him she would be fine, cheered him up with burgers at Remy's or a trip to the Angelica. They'd be sitting in a booth right now, and she would be stealing his fries and grinning herself stupid, and he wouldn't even pretend to be annoyed before giving her _that_ smile.

But she didn't stop him. He left. And now he's on some operating table, god knows how far from life or death, and she's biting down on her knuckles to stop herself from throwing up. Because she didn't stop him.

This is all down to her.

* * *

><p>"Family of Mr Castle?"<p>

She jumps up so quickly she nearly falls over, momentum sending her several steps forward in the waiting room before she regains her balance.

"I'm his partner," she croaks, eyes raking the doctor's face for a clue. He doesn't look sad, doesn't have the _I'm so sorry face _on, but he doesn't look happy either. Fuck, she should be good at this, should be able to read someone's expression. That's basically half her job, right? It's never been more important, and never been more impossible.

"He's out of surgery. It went well."

Her head falls forward automatically, hands scrubbing her face as she gulps for air. Small noises of relief sound behind her from Lanie and the boys, and she steadies herself.

"How is he?"

"He's in the recovery ward, but he's doing okay. There was some damage to his intestines, but we were able to repair the damage and stop the internal bleeding. He's lost a fair amount of blood, too, but fortunately the knife didn't hit any major blood vessels. We'll need to keep a close eye on him for a while to make sure he doesn't suffer any complications, but overall, your partner is a very lucky man."

Too close. The knife that just missed his arteries just missed her, too. Once again she's been spared the hell of losing him, but too close. It was far too close. And next time, when their luck runs out?

Fuck, she needs to talk to him.

"When can I see him?" Now, now, now.

"Well, he's in the PACU at the minute – that's the post-anesthesia care unit. He won't be awake yet, but we're monitoring him to make sure he wakes up properly and there aren't any negative reactions to the anesthetic. Once he's awake, he'll be moved to our post-op ward, and you can come see him. It shouldn't be more than an hour or two, I think. Mr Castle was quite difficult to keep under during surgery, you know. He kept trying to wake up, so I have no doubt he'll be up soon."

She lets out something that could be a laugh, could be a sob. It's a toss-up. "Yeah, he's annoying like that. Never does what he's told."

The surgeon smiles, tells them he'll be back to let them know when they can see Castle, and walks away. For a moment she toys with calling after him, asking if there's no way she could see him. Ask if there was no way they could speed up the process, get him moved wards more quickly.

But no. She reconsiders, and instead she wants to tell him to take as long as they need. Take _longer. _Do they understand how precious the man in their care really is? They should know that he's special. That he's everything. Should know to treat him like solid gold, do everything they can and them some.

She'll wait.

She sinks back into her seat.

Cold, hard, plastic seat. Uncomfortable, but she doesn't care.

She'd wait hours, days, months in this chair to see him. She's not going anywhere.

* * *

><p>It's ridiculous, but the only clear thought in her mind as she approaches his bed is how ugly the divider curtains are.<p>

Usually they're nondescript, a doctor's-scrubs light blue or green, clinical and functional. But the ones in this ward are colourful, clashing patterns of purple and yellow that hurt her head to look at. Castle's always been fussy with interior design – metrosexual, she used to tease him – and all she can think about is how much he must hate those stupid curtains.

He shouldn't be here.

What is she going to see when she pulls back that divider? She knows fine well he's awake, having been told so by the nurses, but she can't fight off pictures of him frail and unconscious, hooked up to machines fighting to keep him alive.

Well. There's only one way to find out.

She tries to open the curtain gently, steadily, but nerves make her motions twitchy and she ends up ripping it back sharply. She barely has time to wince at the too-loud scrape of the hooks against the railing before her breath flees her chest and _there he is. _

He's pale – she has a momentary panic about the possibility of further, undiscovered internal bleeding – and an impressive bruise blooms across his cheekbone, travelling under one eye. He looks exhausted, groggy, as bad as she's ever seen him, but miraculously, wonderfully, beautifully _alive_. And by virtue of that, he looks better than he's ever looked.

"Beckett. Hey."

Never has she been happier to hear that voice.

"Hey yourself, Castle."

Silence falls, awkward and charged, as she sits in the visitor's chair beside his bed. It's right by the top of the bed, close enough for her knees to be squashed against the metal sides, but she doesn't move it back. Doesn't want to.

"You're staring at me. I must look really bad," Castle quips wryly, echoing her words from in a hospital ward almost a year ago. She sucks in a breath at the joke – that little attempt at humour speaks volumes. Even after everything, he's automatically accommodating, giving her the option to keep things light-hearted and funny. If you could call him nearly dying funny. Which she doesn't.

It makes her so, so angry. That they have in-jokes about almost dying, stock words to use in a hospital recovery ward. That it's taken so many near-death experiences for her to realise she doesn't _want _jokes and brush offs and skating around the issue. That he still feels the need to give her an escape route. That, before today, she's always taken them.

"No, I just never thought I'd see you again." She completes the exchange without a trace of a laugh, can feel all her raw emotion poured into the words.

The tentative smile that had been on his face fades, and he sags against his pillows. "I didn't know if you would, either."

That's a multi-tiered statement, with layers and subtext she's not even sure she wants to examine right now. The familiar panic starts to constrict her lungs and urges her to run, but she rebels. Not today. Not after what she almost lost forever.

She shoots her hand out, wraps her fingers around his hand where it rests on the bed.

Castle stills, and the beeping heart monitor beside him picks up the pace slightly.

His hand is reassuringly warm and heavy, ever so slightly rough, exactly how she remembers. _Alive._ She says nothing for a moment, running her thumb absently over his knuckles, before she spots dried blood embedded around his fingernails. His blood.

She fights down bile, fights back the sting of tears.

"I've missed you."

She looks him dead in the eye when she says this, because he needs to know. He needs to understand. "And I'm so glad you're okay."

Silence. For a long time. She'd think he didn't hear her, if it wasn't for the blip on the heart monitor caused by her words. And then...

"I've missed you, too."

The way he says it is strange: almost reluctant, but no less sincere because of it. Like he's admitting an unrequited feeling. Painful.

She tightens her grip on his hand. "And I don't want you shadowing Detective Slaughter anymore. If you're done with me – if you're done shadowing me, I understand. But Slaughter's too dangerous and I don't... I can't see you get hurt again, Castle."

"I'm not gonna be shadowing him anymore." He won't look at her, keeps his eyes fixed on the bed. Every so often, he looks quickly at their joined hands. She wishes she could decipher his expression when he does, but as it stands, he looks carefully blank.

"And I'm not... _done with you._" It's quiet, borderline sullen, but she'll take it. She'll take anything at this point. A soft hope glows in her chest, keeps her breathing. He's not done. There's still a chance.

"Then why did you leave?" She's direct. To the point. She needs to know why the wheels fell off, so she can put them back on. Get them moving again, get them back to what they used to be.

No, not what they used to be – more. What they should've been a long time ago, what her stubbornness and their missed moments kept denying them.

She sees his throat work as he swallows, his eyes falling shut. He shrugs slightly, winces at the motion, and grits his teeth. "It's..."

Another long pause. He exhales heavily through his nose, shakes his head slightly. It becomes evident that there's no answer forthcoming, and she suppresses a choked noise of frustration.

They've come full circle in their relationship, it seems. From him chasing her while she remained terse, to both chasing each other, to her chasing him and being met with a stony face. She keeps running at him, but he has his own walls now, and he's kicking down every ladder she puts up. He's locked her out.

He pulls his hand away, picking almost self-consciously at the blood around his nails. "I really thought I was gonna die in that alley."

This comes out of nowhere, blindsiding her, and did he just say alley? Jesus Christ, she didn't know he'd been stabbed in an alley. Oh, god.

"It was weird. I was so sure I was gonna die. I was scared – I mean, I was completely terrified. But I just kept thinking... I was gonna die alone. And that the Twelfth might have to work the crime scene. And I was so angry that it had to be an alley, of all places. That you'd have to deal with that."

She can't answer past the lump in her throat, not while it's cutting off her air like that. She can barely breathe.

"I dunno. It's stupid. I just thought... my life didn't flash before my eyes or anything. It wasn't anything like I expected."

She finds her voice at last, nodding jerkily. "You notice strange things when you think you're gonna die. I remember I kept thinking about how green the grass was–"

Castle breathes in sharply, and she realises what she just said.

Oh.

Fuck.

Oh, fuck, no.

She just –

Oh, god.

"Castle–"

She's scrambling to explain, reaching for his hand again, but he pulls it out of reach with a hiss of pain. "Beckett, don't."

"No, Castle, listen to me."

"Look, I'd rather not, alright?" His face is shuttered steel. Completely closed off.

"If you could just let me explain–"

"You don't need to explain. I understand."

Wait. He does?

He doesn't have the expression of someone who understands. He doesn't sound like someone who understands. _You understand that I wasn't ready? You understand that I was a coward and I'm sorry? You understand that I love you? _

She should be saying this out loud. Why isn't she saying this out loud?

"You understand?" Caution, laced with hope. Dangerous, dangerous hope. It's coaxing her closer to the precipice, and she doesn't even want to stop it.

"Yeah. I get it. Message received, no need to worry. So you don't need to," he waves a casual hand between them, completely at odds with the distress in his eyes, "let me down gently. As it were."

Let him down gently?

"Castle, what are you talking about?"

"I already knew you remembered."

Her entire body freezes up. Deer in headlights, thy name is Kate. "How?"

"The bombing case. In the box with the suspect."

No, this is all wrong. He wasn't in on that interrogation, when she let it slip in a moment of pure anger. He was elsewhere, and she didn't see him again until later, she remembers because she hadn't had any interaction with him that day apart from the coffee he left on her desk–

Shit.

"You were in observation," she breathes. Oh, but now it all makes sense. He had to find out about her lie by accident, hearing her spit the words at a suspect like they were weapons. _Do you wanna know trauma? I was shot in the chest, and I remember every second of it._

She didn't even give him the courtesy of telling him herself.

And the way he's been acting since then? Angry, distant, cold. She _was _the one who'd broken them. A sin of silence.

"I should've told you–"

"Beckett. Please. _I get it_, okay? Just... if you're gonna do it, please don't do it now. I don't – I can't deal with it right now."

That definitely does not sound like a man who understands.

"You get _what_, exactly?" This isn't going to go anywhere unless he stops talking in riddles. "What is it that you think you get, Castle?"

"Kate," he's pleading. Strained. "Please don't make me say it."

"Say what?" Childish. Stubborn. Needling. Whatever he's refusing to say, she's going to make him say it. Because it's cards-on-the-table time, and she needs to untangle this before she can start to sort things out. "I'm gonna keep asking until you tell me. What is it that you get–"

"That you don't love me!"

It bursts out of him suddenly, jagged and anguished, and he quickly pulls away. He shifts himself as far away from her on the bed as he can, face going white with pain, scowl fixed at the wall.

It's a solid punch to the stomach. He thinks that she doesn't – how could he even – was he stupid – where has he been for the past year? The past four years?

There's a pain in her chest that she thinks could be her heart breaking.

"Castle," she begins, choking on the enormity of her words. _You can't think I don't love you. I won't __let you. _But he's shaking his head, cutting her off.

"And I understand. It's okay. You don't need to try to spare my feelings. So now that that's out in the open, could we..." He closes his eyes again. "I'm really tired, Beckett."

Some more stock words from their last hospital conversation. But she's not buying it.

"I'm not leaving."

"Please, Beckett. I just need to rest, okay?"

"Rick. I love you."

* * *

><p><strong>You can blame the long update time on tumblr. Sorry! As much as the fangirling I see(and take part in) gives me inspiration, it also sucks me into many hours of... well, fangirling. And we all know how scary good that is at stealing time away without you noticing. Not to mention, my control of grammar sort of goes out the window when I spend a while tagging things with "unf" and "omg?"<strong>


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